


Likeness

by NotManTheLessButNatureMore



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, mention of drug overdose, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 06:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18544591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotManTheLessButNatureMore/pseuds/NotManTheLessButNatureMore
Summary: Wardle finds Strike after a particularly hard case.





	Likeness

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for mention of suicide and drug overdose

“Hey.”

 

Strike looked up and saw Wardle’s thin frame by his office door. The detective’s eyes glanced quickly across the desk taking in the overflowing ashtray and half empty bottle of whisky.

 

“Wardle, I’m not-“

 

“Relax, I’m not here in a professional capacity.” Wardle stepped forward and pulled the chair across the desk from Strike further away before sitting down as the private investigator eyed him suspiciously.

 

“Robin?”

 

“She’s,” Wardle paused, choosing his words carefully, “she just wants to make sure you’re alright.”

 

“Right.” Strike laughed sarcastically and poured himself another drink. He pulled a beer bottle from the floor beside him and passed it to Wardle who grabbed the bottle opener on the desk.

 

“So are you? Alright?”

 

“Wardle...” Strike words were lost in an exasperated sigh.

 

“It’s a simple question. One which you’re avoiding by the way.” The look of irritation that seemed to naturally grace Wardle’s face softened somewhat.

 

“I’m fine.” Strike said, his gaze moving from Wardle to the cigarette in his hand.

 

“Say it like you mean it.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“No wonder Robin is worried.” Wardle smirked as he swigged from the beer bottle, knowing what buttons to push.

 

Strike stared him down and then took a long gulp from his glass of whisky. The liquid tingled in the back of his throat, the way it did when the empty glasses started to mount up. They eyed each other as a siren flooded the room and then ebbed away as it crossed the city. Wardle watched as Strike’s eyes dropped and seemed to glaze over.

 

“If you were a civilian I’d say that you couldn’t have done any more.” Wardle said, his voice low and even. Strike just snorted and Wardle watched the slight shake in his hand as he brought the cigarette to his lips once more.

 

“I’d tell you that you can’t save someone who has a death wish-“

 

“-they have to want to be saved. Hm?” Strike supplied, sarcastically.

 

Wardle didn’t answer, just searched Strike’s eyes trying to see past the wall he’d erected.

 

“Look, I know you were in the army...”

 

Strike looked up as the silent words passed through the room. _I don’t know if you’ve killed anyone. I don’t know how many. I don’t know how much death, how much violence, you’ve seen._

 

“I know that the hard ones come out of nowhere. My third year, I found a junkie down near Vauxhall bridge, needle still in his arm. Used his shoelaces to tie his arm but still had his Rolex, had a nice coat on, polished shoes. He was dead by the time the ambulance arrived and then my shift was over and I went home.”

 

“And?” Strike said, his muddled mind wanting to find the connection.

 

“A couple of months later I saw this old man standing in the same spot. He had a raincoat on, a backpack, a flask of tea on the ground by his feet and he was holding sheets of paper up in front of him. Looked like fucking Father Christmas with his white beard.” Wardle smiled and saw Strike’s eyes soften.

 

“I asked him what he was doing and he gave me one of his leaflets. One side had one of those speeches you find on the Samaritans website, the kind that asks you to keep reading it at the end of every paragraph because it’s hard to read and kill yourself at the same time.” Strike smiled slightly at the sarcasm in Wardle’s voice.

 

“The other side had a list of phone numbers for rehab centres and a little speech that basically culminated in ‘don’t do drugs kids’.”

 

“Let me guess, it was the junkie’s father?” Strike asked.

 

“Yeah. Sweetest old fucker you’ll meet. Even with his leaflet full of shitty clip art. Anyway, I hadn’t thought of that junkie since the night he died, cause he was just a junkie. But now suddenly he’s this old man’s son, and he’s someone’s brother, someone’s friend and there are people who miss him. I start to wonder whether he’d still be alive if I’d have crossed the bridge faster and found him sooner. I mean he probably would have just overdosed the next night but who knows, right?”

 

“Bit of a depressing pep talk.” Strike said as he emptied his glass of whisky.

 

“Well I’m not your fucking cheerleader, am I?” Wardle threw the bottle opener on the desk from where it had been twirling in his hand and it skidded across the desk towards Strike.

 

“I just mean that I get it. The doubts, the what ifs. I don’t know why she did what she did, but I know that you’re alive and Robin’s alive and those children are alive-“

 

“Without a mother.” Strike said softly.

 

“But they’re alive.” Wardle searched Strike’s face but he gave nothing away.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, they’re alive and they didn’t see her bleed out all over the floor. They’ll just fill in the blanks when they’re older.” Strike visibly flinched and Wardle’s thoughts drifted back to the Donald Laing case. He remembered Strike’s description of his mother’s death and then wondered if Strike had been there when it happened.

Wardle blew out a long breath and then put his beer bottle on the desk. He leaned closer before he spoke.

 

“You did the right thing. You got the kids to Robin, you got them out of the room.”

 

“Her husband wasn’t cheating on her.” Strike said, his eyes unfocused, as if he hadn’t heard Wardle.

 

“No.”

 

“I told her that.”

 

“I know.”

 

“So why did she still do it? Why did she still leave her kids without a mother?” Strike said, his voice catching in his throat at the end.

 

Wardle shrugged his shoulders and a softness settled on his face as he watched Strike.

 

“You and I both know this kind of shit happens. It’s not fair but it happens. And you’ve got no other choice than to deal with it, and then move on.” He emphasised the last bit and Strike sniffed and then looked up into Wardle’s intense eyes. After a beat he nodded slightly and put the whiskey glass onto the desk.

 

“It’s late. Get some sleep yeah?” Wardle said as he stood. Strike nodded, doubtful of how much he’d be able to commit to the request.

 

“I’ll text Robin, let her know you’re alright.” Wardle said quietly as he walked towards the door.

 

“Wardle?” Strike said loudly when the detective was halfway out the door. Wardle stuck his head around the door with his eyebrows raised.

 

“I just um... thanks.” Strike stumbled over the words, not used to much sincerity in his non-work conversations with Wardle.

 

Fully expecting Wardle to take the piss out of him, Strike was surprised to see the sincere although tight smile that graced his face. He nodded his head again in thanks and Wardle passed through the door.

 

“Sappy fucking gooner.” Strike heard Wardle call from the hallway and couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

**Author's Note:**

> As always thank you for reading and I truly appreciate your comments and kudos!


End file.
